Fall From Grace
by YourFavoriteCONTRACTOR
Summary: Azrael was sent down from heaven to set wheels in motion for future events. However, those who were against his mission sought to destroy him. Badly wounded Azrael completed his assignment and drug himself off to die in peace. But before he did so he passed his grace onto a young, brilliant boy, who dreamed of being a pirate. (Angel Sherlock first two chapters out for trial)
1. Chapter 1

His vessel was badly wounded, not only that, but his own immortal soul was compromised. Broken, bleeding, and near death the angel landed in a vast field out in the countryside. He could feel his strength leaving him, finding it ironic, that he who had guided so many others to the other side would now be given passage himself to the after life. But what kind of afterlife would an angel have? What was left after this long existence.

"Oh."

Azrael looked up after hearing the small voice. A young boy stood in front of him a wooden sword in hand, an eye patch over one eye, a striped shirt and a handkerchief with a jolly roger on it tied over the boy's messy curled hair.

"Hello young one." Azrael addressed the young pirate before him.

"You have an American accent." The boy said his eyebrows crinkling. Azrael blinked not sure how to respond. The boy put down his sword and pulled the handkerchief from his head. "We need to stop this bleeding." He remarked almost impassively as he moved forward to press the cloth against one of Azrael's many wounds.

"You… are not afraid?" Azrael asked staring at the boy who kneeled at his side.

"I've seen blood before." The boy remarked in a off hand way as if this was normal for any child his age, "In your state I doubt you'd be able to do much harm to me, so there's no point to me not helping you." He continued as he took Azrael's hand to press the cloth against the wound.

"I suppose you are right." Azrael said looking down at his tattered body, there was something off about the boy. He was so calm in the face of such gore, the boy's icy blue eyes met the angel's.

"You are going to die." He stated, "I can't do much more for you, you should be dead by now anyway, no matter the kind of medical attention I call you'll be dead before it arrives… I… I just thought you should know." He said. Azrael nodded.

"I… I suspected as much." He responded staring into the boy's cold blue eyes, Azrael wondered for a moment if the child was a demon, but if he was, Azrael would be able to see it's true face, and the boy who looked back at him was nothing but a boy. Brilliant, Azrael could see, and yet, the boy was cold to human interaction, much like Azrael himself was. Azrael opened a bloody hand in a gesture that most humans would understand. The boy looked at him strangely.

"Take my hand. I do not wish to die alone. Please. I am… afraid." Azrael whispered. The boy looked at the dying angel then to his hand and hesitantly grabbed it.

"What is it like?" The boy asked.

"Dying?" The angel asked.

"No… fear?" the boy responded.

There was a pregnant pause in which the ragged breaths of the dying celestial were the only things to be heard. The wind blew slightly and the boy could feel the drying blood from the angel's body on his hands.

"Strange." The angel said at last.

"Strange?" the boy repeated. Azrael looked at the boy, and felt something he had never felt before. Kinship. Strange that he should feel kinship to this bizarre little human. There was a flash through the angel's head. The boy's future. The boy's death. A building, and the rush of pavement. Something in the boy's heart, something long untouched that would one day be the reason he would die. And the pain of his death, the pain of leaving those, whom against his better judgment, the boy had come to care for.

Azrael shuddered. This boy had a important life ahead of him. Important people, people he would one day care for. Something Azrael almost wished he could do now as he lay bleeding and broken ready to die. But strange as it was, he had come to care for the strange little boy who and informed him, that he would, in fact, die.

Azrael looked into those cold blue eyes.

"I… have something for you." He spoke through shallow breaths, "Something, I won't need where I'm going." Azrael said. The boy's eyebrows peaked up on curiousity.

"But you have nothing of value with you, no wallet, no money, no jewelry, just a bit of string, your weapon, and the clothes on your back." The boy observed coldly.

"What I have to give you… it will be worth something someday, far more than you can imagine right now." Azrael said. He put his hand to one of his wounds.

"My grace." He said. The area around his hand began to glow, and a bright angelic white light shone from inside him. The boy drew back confused. The angel brought the grace forth from his body and the light played around his fingers.

"It's for you." The angel spoke, "but you won't remember this." He said softly as the boy tried to pull away. The Angel let the grace go and the pure soft light settled into the boy's chest, and for a moment he froze, then he shook his head as if clearing away fog.

Azrael, with eyes now almost completely closed looked up at the somewhat confused boy.

"Who are you?" The boy asked regaining his composure, "so that I can tell the paramedics." He tacked onto the end.

"Azrael." The now human angel responded, "Who are you?" He asked in return.

"Sherlock… Sherlock Holmes."


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock Holmes."

John Watson fought back tears as he laid flowers on the grave. It's had been a week. A week and John had bough three jugs of milk, all of which sat in the head free fridge now. Sherlock's stuff had been cleared, the experiments and the long anecdotes about tobacco, pollen, and chewing gum has been put either in the trash or in the boxes that inhabited Sherlock's room. The flat was the cleanest that John had ever seen it. It was strange to come home to an empty flat.

John stared down at the grave a stubborn tear rolled down his cheek as he did so.

"John… I did this for you."

"Sherlock…" John said looking down at the grave stone, "I… I don't want to believe that you're a fake. There… there are vandals throughout the city… they all share one message. Sprayed across the city…" John swallowed his voice thick, "they're saying 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes," and "Moriarty was real," I… I thought you'd like to know."

"Thank you John. For everything."

"The police… the police don't know what to make of it. They're running about with their heads cut off… and Lestrade… well he's stopped eating."

"Maybe he can finally lose those extra pounds then."

"You'd probably make a jab here about his weight. Your brother… He blames himself." John's hand clenched and a muscle in his jaw twitched, "As he should." He stated defiantly. "And Misses Hudson… I don't think she'll ever be the same. She keeps coming in and cleaning, un-packing and repacking boxes. Trying to decide what to donate what to keep. She ends up crying herself to sleep on your bed Sherlock… I've lost count of the amount of times I've found her in the flat. She's aged twenty years. Sherlock…" John paused here.

"John. One day you'll understand why I had to do this."

"I just wish I knew… I knew why." John shook his head, "Why you lied to me? Why you said you were guilty. I believed in you Sherlock, I really did… but… if you are innocent… I don't understand why you did this." John hung his head, "After everything everyone has seen you do, not the public but the people who know you, really know you, I don't understand how anyone could have ever doubted you so much. Beyond the cases, you… the things you knew about people… I don't believe you'd have had the time to research everyone or plan every meeting, you're a genius Sherlock, and I know that just feeds your ego, but…" John chuckled mirthlessly to himself, "I suppose that doesn't really matter, Sherlock… I'm so lost."

"John…"

"I don't know how I'm supposed to go on. I really don't. I can't just stop, I've got to carry on, I know I do but… Sherlock… You showed me… you taught me so much, about the world, about people, about life… about myself. I'm not sure where I'd be without you right now. From the moment you walked into my life I knew somehow things would never be the same. And there were days, god there were days, when I wanted to kill you with my bare hands…"

"You tried a couple times if you recall."

"But… God… I'd take it all back for one conversation with you." John hung his head. "For… For what it's worth… I believe in Sherlock Holmes." John said as he turned away from the grave stone. John could swear he heard the flutter of wings as he glanced back at the headstone. A white note lay under the flowers, and scrawled in familiar hand writing across it were the words:

"I believe in John Watson."

(Meanwhile in America)

"Oh no. We are NOT doing another job, it's only by the graces of God that you survived the last one." Dean said setting two beers on the table. Sam gave a scoff.

"Interesting choice of words." He commented.

"Shut up Sammy." Dean said taking a swig out of his beer and sliding the other one across the table to Sam.

"All I'm saying, is that there is something weird going on in this town. It's not too far, and it doesn't seem to be anything too dangerous. We should at least check it out." Sam shrugged.

"Oh no, not while you're on the mend. We already tried it your way and you nearly got killed…" Dean glanced at Sam adding a mental "again" to the end of that sentence.

"Dean…" Sam said eyebrows crinkled, "If we had a penny for every time we've been almost killed…. We could pay for the psychiatric help we obviously need." Sam commented. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"While I'll give you that one, a no is a no Sammy… why don't you call Garth? See if he can get someone on that case for ya." Dean said leaning back in a chair and setting his feet on the table.

"I don't understand what's gotten into you lately! It's a simple job, what happened to saving people, hunting things?" Sam said throwing his hands up in exasperation, "How are we going to do that cooped up here?" He asked gesturing to vast hall around them, "Ever since the trials you've been acting weird, and not just because you're worried about me. You're hiding something." Sam accused.

"Oh, alright, alright," Dean said taking his feet off the table and folding his arms leaning toward Sam with a serious look on his face. "You're right. I've been hiding something. And that something is this… that you're an idiot Sammy, I'm sorry." Dean said staring at Sam in all seriousness.

"You… you are a jerk." Sam said pulling back annoyed by Dean's antics. Dean shrugged and continued with his beer.

"I think we at least need to check…" Sam broke off suddenly sitting up straighter, "We must go to Emporia, Kansas."

"I… Zeke?" Dean said, "I don't understand… it's just a small case, and you're weak from bringing Charlie back and healing Sam…"

"I felt the presence of one of my brothers, one whom we had all long believed to be dead. He was lost to us in England several years ago during a top secret mission, we suspected from God himself. If we can find him, it is possible we may be able to find answers to this whole heaven mess." Ezekiel said staring at Dean.

"So… we find this brother of yours and he can, hopefully, tell us where to either find god, or some way to get the angels off our asses." Dean said. Ezekiel frowned.

"Yes, it is as you say. But we must move descreetly and swiftly. By now my other brother's and sisters have felt his presence and are undoubtedly headed his way." Ezekiel insisted.

"Right… then we go." Dean said.

"out what's happening and see if it is related to the supernatural in anyway." Sam finished.

"Right, pack your bag, we're leaving tonight." Dean said.

"So quickly?" Sam said, "I mean not that I'm not glad we're going to do something but… what made you change your mind?" Sam asked.

"Doesn't matter. Lets get a move on." Dean said standing and walking out of the room leaving a very confused Sam at the table.


End file.
